


Body Like A Gun

by pyromancing



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Burlesque, Drug Use, F/M, Gaby is a badass, Hurt/Comfort, Jealous Illya, Pining, honeypot mission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-21
Updated: 2015-12-10
Packaged: 2018-04-22 17:03:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4843382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pyromancing/pseuds/pyromancing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gaby is a honeypot in an undercover burlesque mission. Illya is jealous and concerned for her safety.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I did my best to research but please forgive any era-related and profession-related errors.

Perched on the windowsill, Gaby’s cigarette glowed brightly as she breathed in anxious drags. The New York lights shimmered in time to the radio, her heavy lashes fanning over rouged cheeks as she watched pedestrians weave through gridlocked cabs. She was living alone, working under an alias, and speaking openly only to Waverly in brief telephone calls. This new American life had turned out to be dreadfully lonely without Napoleon and Illya. When Waverly briefed the mission files to her she had been thrilled, imagining car chases, blazing guns, and gasping lungfuls of fresh American air. She wanted heroism followed by hangovers. Instead the mission had consisted entirely of too-tight cocktail dresses and shaking her ass behind feather fans.

She learned striptease the same way she learned to fight – with painful repetition, early mornings, and a stern trainer. Her instructor Ida was a rake of a woman with hard coal eyes and thin poppy-red lips, a former ballerina turned pinup girl turned lethal MI6 agent. There were similarities between the gritty fights of her agent-in-training teens and this, learning to know her body and how to use it like a weapon. Seduction, in this mission, would be far more useful than a burly agent holding a gun. The target was Samuel Lange, owner of Lange Jewelry, a known drug trafficker with connections to a violent neo-Nazi organization. Gaby was going to become his favorite dancer and charm her way to his bedroom so that she could steal intelligence about this organization from his heavily secured home.

She started at the Midas Club under the alias Sabine, introduced to the manager as a first-rate burlesque dancer. She aced tryouts and was immediately taken in by the other girls as family. They welcomed her with warm hugs and excitedly showing her to her dressing station.

The Midas Club was expensive in every way. Cover, drinks, and girls. But if you had the cash to burn then Midas would take care of you. The club manager explained how the private dances worked, the non-touching policies for standard customers, and how enough money could buy sex. If she decided to sleep with customers then the establishment was entitled to the same percentage of any ‘tips.’

That night Gaby drank an entire bottle of champagne and played the radio too loudly, wishing desperately that this assignment had required she work on engines instead.

Gaby’s first dance was with two other girls. The three of them were dressed as sailors with little white hats and navy blue shift dresses dancing a silly go-go routine. After, Gaby scurried offstage feeling lighter and hopeful, joining the other girls for celebratory drinks and laughing for the first time in a long time.

It took several weeks of dancing on the sidelines before Gaby was granted her first main stage appearance and finally, the pieces in this elaborate game of chess were starting to move. It was time to work.

A garment bag from Waverly appeared at her flat and she unzipped it to reveal a diamond-encrusted bodysuit corset with a fluffy train of six feather boas that protruded like tails. Gaby ran a hesitant hand over the fabric, feeling the hardness of the diamonds, knowing with certainty that they were real. How else to bait a cocaine-fueled jeweler than with a woman made of precious rocks?

Gaby put the outfit on without lacing the back and admired herself in the mirror, holding the loose unlaced bodice to her breasts. The hundreds of diamonds reflected the daylight into millions of sparkling fragments that danced on the floor and walls. She looked at the reflection and felt like she didn’t know this woman. Her eyes were still smudged with shadow from the previous night, there were crumpled American bills strewn on the table next to her, and her feet ached with blisters from ill-fitting heels. Living as Sabine was exhausting but Gaby had to admit she enjoyed elements of it - the independence, the glamour, the doting attention, the girls backstage and their champagne and laughter.

America was a land of excess, and Gaby didn’t have to pretend to enjoy shopping with the girls. Wherever she went she heard Illya and Napoleon bickering in the back of her mind over the clothes she would try on. Thank god they wouldn’t see her in this ensemble, dressed up like sparkling drug-lord bait, and that made Gaby feel somewhat relieved. Absentmindedly, she rubbed the pearl of the fake engagement ring on her finger and wondered where they were now.

 

* * *

 

Once Illya slipped back behind the iron curtain Oleg had kept him busy with assignments. Nothing calmed the pulsing in his brain quite like breaking a man’s bones and his director commended him on his ruthlessness, stating smugly “the West has not softened you.” Oleg was wrong though, Illya felt riddled with weaknesses. There was an ache in his chest that he had not felt since he was a boy and he would rub his palm against his chest so frequently that his KGB comrades offered him antacids.

That night, as he lay on his cot and thrashed with agitated discomfort, he thought of a woman and how her lips had hovered so close to his without ever touching. What would the KGB say if they knew that little Gaby Teller had made him weak? He had survived torture and countless battle wounds but it was a petite brunette with violent eyes that cut him at the knees.

Just as sleep was beginning to pull Illya under he heard a sharp knock on the apartment door. He leapt to his feet and grabbed for his gun, the weight of the metal reassuring and familiar as he padded silently to the threshold.

Throwing open the door he pointed the barrel right between Napoleon Solo’s eyes and couldn’t help the way his lips twisted into a brief smile. “Cowboy,” he said, holstering the gun.

“Nice to see you too, Peril,” Solo regarded the gun with distaste before handing him a manila envelope, “You’ve got mail, and a mission. We leave in two hours.”

Illya furrowed his brow and ripped into the package, rifling through the pages of the dossier and squinting at the small type. New York, Neo-Nazis, no violence unless absolutely necessary, how inconvenient. Illya froze when he turned the page to a wallet-sized photo of Gaby – unsmiling, eyes to the camera – her MI6 profile picture.

“She’ll be there,” Solo smirked at the way Illya’s posture suddenly straightened, “U.N.C.L.E. is having a little reunion.”

Later, he would carefully slip the photo into a small cigar box in his luggage where he kept his favorite keepsakes.

 

* * *

  

There was a swarm of activity around Gaby’s mirror as several women fussed with her hair. Carol, a tall blonde, backcombed the back of her skull with vigor while Helen, a stout redhead, undid Gaby’s hot curlers. Her makeup was already done, dark kohl cat eyeliner, a dramatic cut-crease, false lashes and a pink pout. She looked predatory and she loved it. Carol doused her in a shower of hairspray and the girls all laughed when Gaby started coughing.

The band fired up a new brassy song, signifying the beginning of another act.

“Curtain in ten!” a male voice called into the change room and Gaby stood, startled, shucking her silk dressing robe immediately so that she stood wearing nothing but nipple pasties and a glittering g-string. “Hurry! Help me get dressed!” she laughed at the nervousness in her voice and Carol patted her on the shoulder, the other women merely congratulated her on how ravishing she looked as they helped her step into her one-piece corset, fluffing up her feathery tails and lacing her in tight. They made quick work of her stockings and as they clipped them to her garter she felt distinctly like a soldier preparing for battle.

Finally, Gaby stepped into her heels and stood in front of the mirror to really look at her transformation. She had tried on the diamond-plastered outfit in the hotel in natural daylight with no makeup on and had thought it satisfactorily sexy. Now, under hot lights and with her female entourage buzzing behind her, she felt exactly the same she felt the day she first held a gun: powerful. Like she could make Samuel Lange tell her anything.

 

* * *

 

Solo and Kuryakin arrived via private jet at the newly named JFK airport. News of the president’s assassination chilled the air as much as the oncoming New York winter.

An unmarked car delivered them to a posh hotel and Illya couldn’t help but look up at everything, his normally dour expression melting away to softer awe. When they arrived at their room they found two thick wallet-sized cards waiting for them on the table with the words ‘Midas Club Member’ embossed in gold foil. Like clockwork, the phone rang and an appealing feminine voice told Solo that a car would be waiting for them at midnight outside the hotel.

“We will meet Gaby there?” Illya said, his eyes betraying some uneasiness. Solo simply nodded.

Both men dressed for the evening in smart suits with white shirts, Solo favouring dark blue, Kuryakin in dark gray. Each had a gun snug to their side in shoulder holsters. There was a very sobering silence between them as they pulled up to the club, flashing their membership cards and walking in without incident.

The lights were dim and the air was thick with cigarette smoke and roving figures half-obscured in hazy red light. A quintet jazz band kept the room buzzing, spitting out raunchy brass numbers and chart-topper covers. The two picked out a spot at the bar and ordered drinks, Solo ordered an Old Fashioned for himself and a White Russian for Illya before he could open his mouth to object. “Very funny, cowboy.”

Solo was scanning the floor with what looked like suave nonchalance but he was carefully cataloguing who was who in this zoo.

“In the VIP booth?” Illya asked quietly, trying to conceal his accent. 

“As to be expected. Mr. Lange isn’t one to stay out of view.”

Samuel Lange was tall, dark, and handsome. His broad shoulders filled out his expensive suit and his pronounced cheekbones made his face look sculpted when cast in the glow of the stage. He was rich too. Solo looked forward to shooting him if things went south. 

Lange had several large men with him, cronies, all with a dancer perched on their knee or dancing on their table, giggling and grabbing at the large bills being handed to them. It would be difficult for them to try to slip in there. Gaby could slip in there, Solo thought, if she presented herself a certain way. If she dolled up and undressed a little she could--

His eyes slid suddenly to the empty stage, the crushed velvet curtains, the dimming lights, and to his partner’s unsuspecting scowl.

The band fired up into a number that was louder and more triumphant than the last two. Everyone straightened up and turned toward the stage as a spotlight formed on the curtain. It was very dark and quiet and the band played a drum roll. A disembodied voice boomed, announcing a dancer named Sabine. Cymbals crashed, the band swelled with warm brass and a driving drumbeat.

Curtains parted to reveal a silhouetted woman reclining on an ornate chaise lounge chair, her back to the audience. A tantalizing trick of the light. As she stretched, backing up her ass into the air like a stretching cat, the audience grew raucous with whistles and yells.

Solo couldn’t help but look at Illya, try to gauge his expression, whether he knew, or if he even suspected, but he was staring at the stage with rapt attention, looking entirely undisturbed.

The mystery woman stood and took several sashaying strides forward as the spotlight turned on, catching her like a photograph in a sultry pose, one arm up, the other running down her throat, her chest thrust forward and her leg bent with perfect pinup flair. She was encased in sparkling diamonds and the visual effect was stunning, but Solo found himself looking at the familiar female face hidden behind that stage makeup.

Illya stood abruptly, his glass clattering to the ground as his slack, shaking hands lost their grip. His eyes were wide, stricken. His chest was heaving. 

"It's Gaby."


	2. Chapter 2

The Midas Club at midnight, as Saturday rolled into Sunday, was truly an exciting place to be. Dancers rushed to get ready while the wait staff held down a full house and a packed bar. Those who were already in costume and makeup sat in tight circles on instrument cases, smoking and drinking and laughing nervously. Later, when the band finished, there would be more alcohol flowing to celebrate a profitable night. The energy was electric and Gaby found herself more giddy than nervous as she waited for her performance. Only one song to go until curtains up.

Helen stood in the wings of the stage fixing Gaby’s hair, peeking from the shadows at the well-dressed men near the front, the high rollers they would focus their efforts on. Everyone who worked the stage knew who was important in this underworld. Gossiping with the performers provided a wealth of intel for Gaby, who would return to her hotel room each night and jot down pages and pages of reports to later send to Waverly.

“Who’s your prey tonight?” Helen’s Jersey accent made everything sound like music to Gaby, who laughed out loud at the question.

“Prey?”

“You can have your pick of the goddamn litter, so who’s it gonna be?”

She leaned forward so she could see a sliver of the crowd and squinted her eyes as if trying to decide. “Red tie in the booth.” 

Helen made an impressed frown, "Lange. Good one, man has cash.”

"What does he like?"

“What he can’t have,” she smirked, “Likes to work for it. Don’t give up anything to him tonight, I promise it’ll be worth it later. He’ll pay enough for a week of waiting.”

The band finished their piece and Helen immediately reached to fluff Gaby’s fantail, patting her torso down to make sure every piece of the ensemble was where it needed to be. Her inspection concluded, Helen slapped her on the ass and shoved her onto the stage, “Love ya Sabs, knock ‘em dead!”

 

* * *

 

 

Tiny sparkling refractions multiplied from the diamonds on her bodice until the light spilled onto every surface in the theatre like pinpoint stars, illuminating a mass of awestruck faces. Men held their hats to their chests and gaped like children as an unusual hush fell over the room. The woman on stage tipped her face down to smile at the crowd and Illya felt his stomach drop.

It was Gaby.

He felt his untouched drink slip from his hand and his feet began moving of their own accord until he found himself on the main floor, shouldering his way into the crush of the crowd. He could hear Solo’s protestations in his ear but his world had narrowed in focus until it was just Gaby. Gaby. Gaby.  

To the delight of the crowd she began rolling off her stockings and he remembered the feeling of her thigh, quivering in his grip, the smoothness and warmth of her in contrast to his cold, rough hands. He had killed many people with those hands. He wondered if she had killed people.

Playfully, Gaby rubbed the loose stockings between her breasts and slingshotted them into the crowd, the men elbowing each other as they grappled for a piece of her. Illya felt sick watching them - they didn’t deserve to look at her, let alone touch the fabric she had worn.

Her nimble fingers loosened the laces at her back with several well-placed tugs. Then, she turned her back to the audience and threw the sparkling garment to the side, revealing her naked back. Illya exhaled a breath he didn't know he had been holding as he beheld her, observing that her skin was smooth and unmarked by knives or bullet wounds. The fluffy tails were attached to her garter belt still, hiding her bottom half from view.

She bent at the waist, her ass to the crowd, feathered train parting, to reveal a dainty diamond thong, and cast a smoldering look over her shoulder to a specific spot in the crowd. Illya could tell by her expression that she was looking with intent, and whipped his head around to see that Samuel Lange was now standing outside his booth, moved from his seat as if he couldn’t help but try and get closer to her. Lange, like him, and so many others in this crowd, were magnetically pulled to her. Illya suddenly felt very stupid as he understood what was happening here: a seduction. He turned back to the stage to see Gaby looking like something out of one of his fantasies, holding armfuls of boas to her naked chest. Illya’s stomach did a flip as her eyes scanned the crowd, passing over him without truly seeing him.

Gaby feigned shyness for a moment until the band hit a big note and she grinned, lifting her arms triumphantly as the feathery obstruction dropped to the ground. The crowd erupted with bellowing cheers as she thrust her chest forward and wiggled from side to side, breasts bouncing joyfully with nipples concealed by diamond pasties. Illya's face felt hot with shame. He knew he should look away but he couldn't. She was so beautiful it overwhelmed him. He lusted for her lithe form tight against his, her breath ghosting his lips as it was in Rome. 

Although she was a petite woman, she looked tall and proud now, like she owned every man before her. And in truth, she did. This den of sin was her kingdom and she ruled absolutely. She looked at them with a tilted smirk, finally casting a dangerous look at Lange, who was staring at her with dark covetous eyes that made Illya want to strangle him.

Performance finished, she was gathering her things and smiling appreciatively at the crowd when things went terribly terribly wrong. 

A man at the front grabbed her violently off the rise onto the floor.

Gaby squawked in surprise as she crumpled onto the ground with a painful thud. Illya could hear her cries through the pealing warning bells in his brain.

Everything became red.

His heart thundered in his chest, lungs breathing in hate, breathing out violence. Before the crowd or the bouncers could fully understand what was happening Illya was charging forward like a bull, ripping the man off Gaby by his throat, and throwing his body onto a table. The crunch and crash of silverware made a waitress scream and the offending man was grabbed by the mob that now had caught on to the fact that a man was assaulting their headline dancer.

Illya stood seething, his face contorted in rage as he saw Gaby’s belligerent attacker escorted violently from the hall. Then, as he turned to her, he felt his anger extinguish in a way it never had before.

Poor Gaby was laying flat on her back, naked and fragile. The train on her garter fanned out elegantly on the floor, her bruised head cradled in both hands, her bare chest heaving.

The desire to comfort her was overwhelming so he knelt, reaching for her shoulder to pull her into a sitting position. Sensing a threat, she wheeled around at him with a snarl, gripping his wrist hard enough to make the bones rub together. He felt a small amount of pride at her ferocity. 

"Illya…?" Her eyes widened with understanding and she grew pale, shuffling away from him like a panicked animal. “No. No no no!” She moaned, trying to scramble to her feet. Illya shouldered off his suit jacket and attempted to place it on her shoulders but she pushed it away with a reproachful look. “ _Why are you here?”_ she hissed under her breath.

“Are you hurt?”

"Illya," her voice was clipped and over-enunciated, "if you want to help me then you will lift me onto the stage _right now_." Her eyes were fiery but the pupils were noticeably different sizes. She was concussed.

"You’re hurt!"

"No, Illya, I _need_ to finish the act! Lift me!" She wrapped her arms around his neck.

Picking her up was effortless and he carried her bridal-style to the edge of the stage, her grip firm on his shoulders as she righted herself. Her skin was warm and impossibly soft but he refused to let himself dwell on that thought.

She wobbled a bit as she stood, blinking in the brightness of the lights and it was like a switch was turned on as she effortlessly slipped into Sabine’s character - all showmanship and flirtiness. Gaby donned a fake smile and threw her arms into the air to raucous cheers, concluding her performance officially.

The glittering velvet curtains closed and Illya was left standing in the dark, staring at the stage as if Gaby had taken an important piece of him with her.

 

* * *

 

 

Gaby fell over into Helen’s arms in the wings, reeling at what had just happened. Helen embraced her and cooed reassuring statements. After a moment of Gaby catching her breath they moved through the back halls, down a spiral staircase, underneath the band stage, and then up into the change rooms. The belly of the theatre was complex and writhing with beautiful women who shouted flattering remarks at her as she passed. Everyone deemed her performance a success.

A myriad of pains plagued Gaby. Her head ached from hitting the floor and she occasionally had to close her eyes when the world started spinning too much, then there were the sooty burns of unwanted hands that had groped her chest. She rubbed at her sore breast and was reminded of the man’s clammy hands pulling and gripping painfully at her skin, trying to rip off her nipple pasties. There would be bruises tomorrow.

She was grateful Illya was there to pummel her opponent on her behalf tonight, but he was not supposed to be here at all. Had Waverly sent him? The Russian was compromising her mission and distracting her. Tomorrow she would call the Laundromat attendant Waverly used as a secret secretary and tell him _precisely_ how she felt about the situation.

It had been months since she last saw him in Istanbul. They did not talk much then. She thought of Illya tonight in that dark gray suit, his hair mussed from fighting, taking off his suit jacket and leaning over her, eyes dark like the sea...

Vomit rose in her throat and she ran to a trash bin and wretched, moaning pitifully when it didn't make the world stop spinning. She was badly concussed. Helen held back her hair and she felt another pair of hands rubbing her back. Carol’s voice laughed airily behind her, joking about tequila and saying they would call her a cab. For all their joking, she felt well cared for and mumbled out a wet “thank you.”

Gaby exited the theatre out the back wearing a long camel jacket and a thick scarf. She waved from the cab window to her entourage as they smoked by the dumpsters. They shouted that they loved her and that she was a star. She sat back and let the praise wash over her, lighting a cigarette and exhaling the smoke with a huge sigh. She could return to her hotel room now, ice her aching head, and try not to think of how nice Illya’s arms had felt around her.

 

* * *

 

Napoleon left Gaby’s hotel door ajar with his lock pick still in the keyhole and got comfortable on the couch in her bedroom, idly counting the copious amounts of paper money that had been strewn on the floor. He was roused from his trance by the click of a hammer being pulled back, and looked up to see Gaby tucked against the doorframe, pointing a tiny peashooter at him.

“Housekeeping,” he said, putting his hands in the air innocently.

“Napoleon,” Gaby huffed, offended, “Does Waverly think I can’t do this mission?” 

“He thinks you might need someone to hold a gun when you don’t have anywhere to _hide_ one.” He quirked an eyebrow, looking obviously at the expanse of leg peeking out of the high slit on her coat - she wasn’t wearing anything underneath.

She put the gun down on a dresser and began to unbutton her coat, looking at him sideways, “I’d ask you to leave but there isn’t much of a point is there? You were at the club, too.”

“I was.”

She let the coat fall to the floor. She wore nothing but heels but kicked those off too, shrugging into a frumpy white sweater and pulling on a pair of very plain underwear. Seeing her undress felt strangely domestic and non-sexual and Solo appreciated her trust. She grabbed for the whiskey decanter and poured herself a glass, Napoleon’s small nod made her pour another. As she drank she tugged off her eyelashes and pulled out dozens of bobby pins from the back of her head, letting her hair unravel into a lion’s mane of unkempt curls.

Solo switched on the radio and they sat in companionable silence listening to the music and drinking, until he noticed that Gaby had fallen asleep sitting up in bed. He pried her empty glass from her hand and pulled the comforter over her. “Goodnight Gabriella,” he whispered.

When Napoleon returned to the sitting room of the suite, Illya was standing in the doorway, holding an ice pack in his enormous hands.

“She is asleep,” Illya said in a hushed voice, almost a question.

“It’s exhausting being someone you’re not.” A long silence stretched between them. The radio and Gaby’s steady breathing could be heard from the next room, “Illya, you know… she might have to sleep with him.”

“I know.” 

“You don’t own her.”

“I know,” Illya’s face was tight, his eyes pained, “I just don’t want her to get _hurt._ ”

Solo moved as if to leave, but had one last thing to say before he turned the corner: “Don’t underestimate her.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your lovely comments and kudos, they mean the world to me!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel weirdly self-conscious about how this chapter turned out. It was difficult to write. Let me know if you enjoyed it in the comments.

Something cold and wet touched her brow, and Gaby woke with a shiver to see Illya crouching beside her in the dim light. He was holding an ice pack to her head. Half awake, her pride forgotten, she reached out to cup his face and smooth a thumb along the stubble on his jaw. He leaned into the touch like a cat and closed his eyes.

"How are you feeling, chop shop girl?" He rumbled warmly, the depth of his voice vibrating against her hand. This man wasn’t supposed to be in New York, or even in her room for that matter, yet she found herself appreciative of his presence now. How was she feeling? She couldn’t answer that question simply. She felt sore everywhere, especially her aching head, and she felt indignant that she could not finish this mission on her own, away from the judgment of her team.

“Cold.”

“I will get more blankets,” he said, moving to leave, but she gripped his collar firmly.

“No, stay.” She shuffled away from the edge of the bed and flipped back the covers, her expression stern, “Get in here.”

Illya narrowed his eyes, “I will sleep in my own room."

"You don't have to sleep, just stay a while.”

Illya didn’t move or respond.

Gaby sighed, “It would make me feel better.”

He regarded her for a long while with a wary expression before finally assenting. “Ok.” He placed the ice pack on the bedside table and stood.

Gaby watched him with rapt attention as he toed off his shoes and shouldered off his suit jacket. The bed creaked with the weight of him and his knees bumped her shins as he crawled under the covers, his large body positioned awkwardly at the far edge of the bed. Gaby huffed a small laugh as he settled in; there was something uncharacteristically childlike about seeing Illya in a soft bed with the covers up to his chin. He narrowed his eyes at her laughter. Gaby reached out blindly under the covers and found his clenched hand, startling him.

"I missed you," she admitted. His hand tightened imperceptibly under hers as she rubbed her thumb over his knuckles.

His eyes were sad, “Why?"

“Why do you think?” she moved closer until her legs entwined with his and her breath was at his throat. Illya stiffened, his hand twitching at her hip.

She gazed up at him and noticed the way his jaw went slack and his eyes grew dark.

Angling his face to hers, tenderly lifting her chin with a finger, Illya leaned in with the obvious intention to kiss her. With a pang in her heart, she turned her head the tiniest bit so the brush of his lips met her cheek instead. Illya became very still, as if this little refusal meant a larger _No_.

In a different world she would have kissed him senseless, she would have rolled on top of him and palmed his arousal roughly through the fabric of his trousers. He would have marked her as his, covering old bruises with fresh ones.

But Gaby knew they could never go back from that one kiss - so she pressed her forehead to his and simply breathed, wrapping her arms around his broad neck. Her fingers scratched lightly at the back of his head and he melted against her. He smelled faintly of nutmeg and military-issue soap. Illya firmly cradled her against his chest and Gaby realized that she had not felt this safe in years.

The last thing she remembered before she fell asleep was Illya's large hand stroking the back of her head.

 

* * *

 

 

Illya woke to the hum of New York traffic and became aware of the fact that he was spooning Gaby.

Instinctively he pulled her sleeping form closer to his chest and nuzzled his face into the back of her head, breathing deeply and listening to the sounds of the world waking up. Still asleep, she responded by pressing back into him with a small noise, which made his chest feel like it would explode from happiness. 

Lingering for far longer than was necessary, he sleepily watched Gaby’s chest rise and fall and willed time to stop so he could stay in this moment forever.

 

* * *

 

 

The gifts started coming the day after her performance. Every few days at noon a delivery boy would arrive at the back door of the theatre with a large gift in tow and a linen card with the letters S.L. printed in ornate swirling script. It began with a monstrous bouquet of red roses, then a diamond bracelet, then a pearl necklace and earrings, and most recently: a little black Chanel dress and heels in her exact size.

Dance routines during the week were simpler so the girls all had time to ogle the many gifts to Sabine and congratulate her on snaring a prize customer. There was far less jealousy than Gaby expected, and it was a relief. Not knowing what else to do with it, Gaby took the rose bouquet and handed a bloom to everyone who worked the club. The bartenders all wore one on their lapel and all the girls held theirs or incorporated the flower into their hair. For a single night the club, normally drenched in glitter and gold, became a rose garden.

Back in the dressing room as she slipped into the lingerie for each night’s performance, Gaby would inspect the finger bruises on her breast with a frown, imagining Lange’s hands leaving similar marks. The thought made her stomach churn.

Illya and Solo had become part of her routine in that she outright ignored them at the club, and then would spend her remaining hours chatting with them in her hotel room and ordering more room service than they should have. A Russian, a German, and an American all drinking and eating and giggling together. It felt like family.

 

* * *

 

Solo was reading in his room late one evening when Gaby came knocking, still wearing her red dress from the club. She was already a little drunk when he opened the door, holding a decanter in her hand and leaning against the doorframe.

He glanced at the clock by the door - it was three in the morning.

She pushed past him and plopped down on a chair in the sitting room, “I can’t stop thinking about Lange.”

“Well, he is handsome, for a Nazi.”

She laughed humorlessly, “He’s the worst. Do you know what he sent me today? A collar. A diamond collar. He wants to own me, Napoleon. People don’t belong to people.”

 _Illya belongs to you._ He thought.

“Gaby,” he sat down near her, “You’ll do great. We trust you absolutely, and you should know that seducing men is dead easy.”

She blinked at him, “Oh? Is that experience talking?”

He winked at her and took a sip of Gaby’s drink, smiling around the glass at the sound of her raspy laugh. 

 

 

* * *

 

Friday night was heavy with the knowledge that the next evening would be Gaby’s first, and hopefully final, seduction attempt. Illya, who had seemed calm for the better part of the week, began to tap his finger in agitation whenever Gaby discussed what the plan would entail. It was a simple but dangerous series of events: she would invite Lange into a private booth and do her worst, convincing him to take her home, and then try to steal intelligence before slipping away.

In less than 24 hours Gaby would be in Lange’s bed if everything went ‘well.’ The idea of Gaby having sex with Lange was disturbing in itself, but it was the thought of Lange being rough with her, grabbing fistfulls of her hair and forcing himself on her, that dulled his senses until all he could hear was blood rushing in his ears.

In a trance, he found himself unlocking Gaby’s room and reaching for Lange’s latest gift - a bouquet of white orchids in a china vase. He threw them against the wall with such force that the porcelain shattered and an adjacent painting clattered off the wall.

When Gaby returned to her room she was all smiles, pleased to see Illya and just beginning to regale him with a story about something Solo said -  the laughter died on her lips when she really looked at him. The floor beneath his feet was soaked, littered with pottery and petal debris.

He had found one of Lange’s high-end calling cards, a few lines of Lange’s admiration scribbled on the back, but Illya’s broad shoulders were shaking.

“I hate this,” he muttered, staring wretchedly at Lange’s nauseatingly ornate cursive. The words dripped of covetousness, of an inherent disrespect for her as a person. Gaby reached for his arm with a soothing touch, removing the offending card from his iron grip.

“It will be ok,” she whispered, the words ghosts of a former conversation in a different place, a different time.

Illya’s eyes focused on the glint of a pearl on Gaby’s hand and he sucked in a startled breath.

She was wearing his engagement ring, after all this time. Desire pawed at Illya’s heart and he felt his chest constrict. “You…” he breathed, “You wear the ring, still.”

“Yes,” she looked wary.

He smirked, “Yet you would rather kiss Lange before me,” there was a taunt in his tone, a dare.

She looked up at him, defiant, “I’m not your woman.”

“You are Lange’s woman, then.” Obviously not, but he wanted to hear her say it. He advanced, crowding her in, and she retreated - stepping back with a wobble.

“I _pretend_ to be.” Another step, and Gaby was pressed against the wall.

“What else do you _pretend_ to be?” He was so close that he leaned an arm on the wall above Gaby, his face mere inches away, he could smell her floral perfume.

“I pretend that I don’t want to kiss you.”


	4. Chapter 4

_“What else do you_ pretend _to be?”_

Gaby thought of the many lives she had already lived. Her birth and short life had already spanned seismic cultural change. She was many people: the innocent daughter of a murdered nuclear scientist, the East German chop shop girl who lived under the bellies of cars, the young double agent plucked from a boarding school and taught to fight men twice her size, the prestiged ballerina rehearsing for hours until her feet bled, the little girl who, at seven years old saw the second world war end and realized that she would never have to hear an air raid siren or the shrieking boom of the RAF’s shells again. The Battle of Berlin may have ruined her love of fireworks but she was determined not to let Lange ruin how she felt about Illya.

“I pretend I don’t want to kiss you.”  

Illya looked almost frightened at first, his eyes wide and sympathetic. Then his countenance darkened like a thundercloud and a thrill shuddered through her body. Lust suited Illya, it made him godlike and threatening.

He caught her mouth with his and she gasped as his strong arms hoisted her up into the air, pressing her back against the wall. Gaby’s legs wrapped around his hips and he groaned as he rocked against her, licking into her mouth, gripping her hair in one hand and supporting her weight with the other.

She sighed a silent _yes_ as he moved his mouth against her, kissing her deeply, hungrily, and she whimpered, shuddering in his grip. He made soft shushing sounds and smoothed her hair away from her face, smiling at the way her breath hitched when he moved his hips. The raise of his zipper was pressing between her thighs and she could not help the little pathetic noises the friction elicited.

Illya’s hand ducked under her skirt then, his eyes on her face the entire time. Hesitantly, his hand dipped down to where her panties were pressed against him and he smoothed a well aimed thumb over the wetness there, his bright blue eyes wide and captivated as he watched her react to the stimulation.

“Bedroom.” She gasped and he complied, gathering her in his arms and carrying her to the adjacent room, his mouth loath to leave her skin. Gaby peeled off her dress as he carried her, wrestling it up over her head and throwing it on the ground. She wore nothing underneath except her panties and heels. He moved a giant hand over her breasts reverently.

Placing her on the bed, Illya stood straight and ripped off his own clothes with efficiency. Illya’s body was designed to overpower opponents, but right now it was as if every muscle was designed to direct her eyes to the straining erection in his briefs. He was a large man in every sense of the word.

He crawled over her body, dragging his mouth over her breasts, before melting into a slow sliding kiss. Gaby dug her nails into his back, feeling the flex of his muscled shoulders, and hissed as the weight of his cock settled against her hip.

Then he moved south. Peppering kisses down her chest, her stomach, inside her thighs, he sat back and looked her over for a moment. His eyes were dark with want, examining her body appreciatively. Illya began to pull her panties down her legs, pausing to remove her heels and press a burning kiss to her calf.

“ _Du bist schön._ ” He said lowly and Gaby blushed under his heated gaze.

Sliding his shoulders between her legs, she suddenly felt self conscious when she felt his breath against her labia. Illya gingerly parted her folds with one hand and softly pressed his tongue to her. She threw her head back and cried out at the sensation. It was almost too much.

She felt the scratch of his five o'clock shadow on her inner thighs, felt the warm air of his breath against her, felt his broad tongue flicking and toying with her clit expertly.

His eyes smiled, glimmering beneath his mussed hair, as she bucked against his mouth.

"You like this?" He asked and she could do little more than whimper a breathy "uh-huh."

Gaby felt his large fingers tease at her opening and she began to pant and rut against his hand. His huge fingers were pressing into her, filling her as she clenched around them. He fucked her with his hand, curling inside her with a come-hither motion, and hummed with approval at how she shook. Illya put his entire mouth around her and sucked on her clit and she came undone.

Electric sparks of pleasure made her body shake violently without her permission and Gaby let the impulses take over, fisting both hands in Illya’s hair as her mind became blank and her body turned into nothing but billions of red hot nerve endings.

She was vaguely aware that she was shouting as she came, crying out Illya’s name, and saw out of the corner of her eye that Illya was now naked, his hand wrapping around his erection.

He crawled back up her body, kissed her lips, her neck, and whispered things she didn’t understand in Russian against her skin. There was a pause as he hovered over her, searching her expression with a furrowed brow.

“Yes?” He asked, and she nodded, her heart pounding.

Illya licked his hand and slicked it over his cock, nudging it against her as he lined himself up and pressed in.

She felt overstimulated and sensitive at first, but moaned at the stretch and pressure. He was incredibly large and it took a moment to adjust, but the tight fullness felt so right.

It was Illya’s turn to shake then, and he hovered over her, his expression a beautiful contortion of pleasure and restraint. Gaby held his face and kissed him tenderly, feeling his pounding heart at her fingertips.

Slowly, he started to move. Gaby felt his teeth stutter over her shoulder and could hear his ragged breaths in her ear. Illya was not a noisy lover, he kept his sounds of pleasure minimal, but she could tell he was getting close from the tension in his body and the strain in his face.

His hand slid down between them and started working her clit again as he pressed a bruising kiss to her mouth, the snapping of his hips growing rough and frantic. Gaby fisted her hands in the sheets as a second orgasm wracked her small frame.

Seeing Gaby quivering wantonly beneath him was more than enough to send him over the edge. He enveloped her in a crushing embrace and came with a loud groan. She held him through it, holding his head back so she could watch his face. Gaby felt the pulsing of his cock deep inside her and closed her eyes, relishing the feeling. She knew the act solidified something between them, something Lange would never destroy.

For a long while, he stayed inside her, letting her smooth her hand through his hair. He pressed soft kisses to the corner of her mouth and whispered adorations in Russian, as if the language barrier would hide the sentiment. Gaby was no fool, she knew there was love in his words. The Red Peril had never looked so relaxed.

After basking in each other’s afterglow for a long while, Illya withdrew and Gaby hissed at the absence of him, watching Illya shuffle to the ensuite bathroom and return with a towel to clean up the mess. Together they crawled under the covers and pretzeled together face-to-face in a post coital cuddle. Gaby held the towel between her legs as the fluids left her body. They hadn’t used a condom, but Gaby was not too concerned. She had been taking oral contraceptives in preparation of the mission at Waverly’s behest - just in case.

Gaby threw her arm up over her face and grinned, "Oh my god, Illya..."

Concerned, Illya cupped her face in his hands and inspected her expression, "Are you alright? Did I hurt you?"

"I am perfect. That tongue should be illegal."

He relaxed considerably and kissed her, slipping her a little tongue for good measure as Gaby giggled against his mouth. They rolled in the bed and Gaby found herself on top, straddling his hips, so she sat up and gathered the duvet up to her chin like a cloak.

Leaning back, she took a moment to really look at the beautiful man laid out underneath her. Illya was looking back at her with half-lidded eyes.

“You destroy me, chop shop girl.”

Yes, she supposed she loved him, too.

 

* * *

 

That morning Illya woke alone.

He called out for Gaby to the mocking silence of an empty apartment. The needy edge to his voice disturbed him.

She was probably right to leave him - tonight would be difficult and lingering stares, loving touches, these did nothing to help her face Lange. Illya knew better, but that didn’t mean it hurt any less.

As he showered he touched himself to the memories of her body, how she had shivered under him as he entered her, how she had cried his name as she came. He came with a muffled shout and felt hollow, his arousal promptly chased with images of Gaby stripping for another man.

Gaby had said very little as they settled down to sleep, making her affection known with caresses down his spine, smoothing his hair out of his eyes and kissing him slowly, taking his heart apart at the seams. He was lost, there was no going back from this.

He was about to open the door to leave her apartment, stepping over ruined orchids, when the door opened of its own accord.

“Gaby?” He heard himself saying.

Napoleon stood there instead, looking genuinely surprised to see Illya.

It didn’t take a spies eye to see the bruises peeking out from under last night’s outfit, or the unusual loss of rigidity in the Russian’s posture.

Illya wagged a finger, “ _Don’t you dare–_ ”

"I thought it would _never_ happen."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My most sincerest apologies for the long wait. In the process of wrapping up this story I wrote another 7000+ words, so the story has effectively doubled in length. Oops. More to enjoy, I suppose. I will be updating in chunks as I edit/polish but the entire thing should be finished soon. Thank you so much for waiting so patiently! Your comments mean the world to me! Much love xo
> 
> A warning: this chapter contains some sexually violent threats but any sexual acts in this chapters are done consensually.

This was the eye of the storm.

She moved as if through water, the roaring cacophony of the crowd fading away to white noise. Her neck was bound with Lange’s expensive collar, her eyes smoky, her lips ruby red, her outfit a funeral-black lace brassiere and high waisted bottoms. Her routine was raunchier than she personally preferred, crawling on her hands and knees, flexing her spine and rolling her hips.

Lange watched her with predatory focus, her boys watched from different vantage points: Solo at the bar, Illya closer to the stage.

She finished her performance in the usual way, to thunderous applause and bared breasts. If her smile seemed false she didn’t care, because Lange was sold. He flagged down the manager and lined his palm with a roll of bills. Sabine was bought and paid for.

When she entered the changeroom her manager was there, looking immensely pleased with himself.

“Ralph, stop smiling like that you’re scaring me.”

“Darling!” He beamed and clapped his hands together, his normally flushed face even more red than usual, “Your very first private dance is tonight!”

She quirked an eyebrow, “Who’s the lucky man?”

“Samuel Lange. I hope you understand but we set your threshold price very high, what the market would bear you see, and Lange has been buying out every attempted private dance that has been requested of you - something about not wanting other men to have you like that. My dearest, you have set a new record for most earned with a single lap dance - and we have not even collected his bar tab yet. I _knew_ you would bring us luck.”

“Ralphie you’re too much,” She smiled brilliantly and pecked his cheek, feeling numb, “When am I expected?”

He held out his wristwatch for her to see, “Half past. Best get dressed quick.”

 

* * *

 

Illya leaned against an unoccupied table, pretending to drink his scotch. The room had settled to a soft hum as cigarettes were lit and drinks were ordered in-between acts. He watched as Lange and his posse moved across the room, the crowd parting like the red sea as they headed towards a door draped with a velvet curtain.

Gaby emerged from a side door, to the stunned murmurs of the crowd. The regulars recognized her, she was like royalty to them. She wore a long white mink coat with her hair twisted up at the back of her head.

As she brushed past Illya, her darkly lined eyes avoiding his, he snaked an arm around her waist and pulled her to his chest, their faces dangerously close. This action was, by all accounts, stupid, but Illya had the sinking feeling that this might be the last time he ever saw the radiant Gaby Teller. Her march to the velvet room felt funerary, and Illya’s instincts about these things were usually right.

The crowd murmured in disapproval, and the brawny security guard behind her shouted and went to grab Illya. She halted him with the subtle raise of her manicured hand and the man fell back into line, eyeing Illya with distrust.

She adopted Sabine’s haughty gaze, but there was fear behind those thick lashes. Beneath Sabine’s mask, Sabine’s clothes, Sabine’s manner of speaking – Gaby was there looking back at him.

“You better not say goodbye.” Tentatively, she raised a hand to his face and traced the crowsfoot scar by his eye.

“ _Never._ ” His voice was weak, and they maintained eye contact with an intensity that rattled him. There was so much to say that could not be said. Her perfume was the same as the night before and it triggered sense memories that made his heart ache.

A heavy hand clapped Illya on the shoulder then and he turned, simmering with rage, to find three burly men crowding behind him. One of the men shifted his tweed jacket to the side to reveal the grip of a handgun.

“Can we help you boys?” Gaby asked, her hackles rising.

“Nein Fräulein, Herr Lange is expecting you. We need to take this man out for a smoke. Have a chat.”

One man’s apeish hands were creasing his suit jacket. Another man laughed in his ear, “Ja mein freund, a chit-chat.”

He found himself being hauled away by three of Lange’s cronies, the hard metal of a pistol ramming into his spine. Everyone averted their eyes and pretended not to see as he was pressed through the crowd. The men dragged him through an industrial back door and threw him to the wet pavement outside. Illya feigned weakness and crumpled, raising his hands as if in fear. Enough men had cowered before Illya that he knew how to fake it convincingly.

“We know you’re a regular here, so you should know by now that Mr. Lange doesn’t like others touching his _things._ ” One gritted in a staccato German accent.

The other’s accent was even thicker, “She is not yours to touch. You know this. You touch. So we teach you lesson.”

They rained down on him with kicks to his torso, aiming for his kidneys with their hard bootheels. His strangled sob, faked, gave them satisfaction enough to pause.

Hauling him into a standing position, holding him by the scruff of his shirt, the third man socked him in the gut. Illya blew out a pained breath, retreating to the quiet part of his mind his mother taught him to find.

Knuckles connected with his face a dozen times, making his teeth rattle in his skull. Blood dripped freely from his nose. They hit him with a violence that suggested they had hurt many people before but the force of it was clearly meant to maim rather than kill. He knew what the latter felt like – this was child’s play in comparison.

The German who had been punching him leaned in close and leered openly, “You know, I bet he’s fucking her raw right now. Get that bitch high as a kite on powder, she’ll be _begging_ for it.”

His heart felt like it was in his mouth, the pulsing of his anger, blood, and frothing drool, slipping down his lips and splattering onto the pavement. Seeing Illya’s animalistic expression, the man grinned, thinking he had found a soft spot to jam his words like a knife. Emboldened, he jabbed his fist sharply at Illya’s side - only to find his wrist trapped in the Russian’s giant hand.

Illya seethed through bared bloodied teeth, “You talk too much, mal'chik.”

 

* * *

 

Solo meandered around the corner of the building about five minutes after Illya was wrestled out the door. He estimated it would take only three, but he wanted to give Kuryakin time to cool down. 

As expected, he rounded a dumpster to find the three Germans prone on the pavement. Illya stood in their midst, illuminated starkly by a car that had driven into the alley. The blood on his face glistened in the light.

“Happy you could blow off some steam. I had the valet drive the car right to us.”

Illya held up a finger to indicate ‘one moment’ as he pressed both hands to his face, resetting the cartilage in his nose with an unsettling crackle noise. He trotted after Napoleon and fell into step beside him as they walked to the parked car.

Solo handed Illya a handkerchief, “You look scarier than usual. Mop that up.”

Illya covered his nose and mouth with the fabric, his eyebrows tilting up in concern as he spoke, “One said that Lange will give Gaby drugs.”

“She’s a big girl, she can handle it. We know he won’t kill her, he paid good money for her.

“Her microphone is on. We will listen in to know for sure.”

“If you can handle it, Peril.”

 

* * *

 

Watching Illya be ripped away from her left Gaby deeply shaken, and she leaned on her security escort for support.

“I’m sorry you had to see that, Miss. Shall I take you back to the dressing room?”

“No that will be quite alright, Paul, thank you. I just need a moment.” Across the room, she met Napoleon’s gaze and breathed a sigh of relief when she saw him slip through the front entrance. Illya and Napoleon accounted for, she could carry on into the lion’s den. Gaby closed the distance and slipped behind the curtain, depositing Paul the security man at the door where he would wait, just outside, in case she needed him.

Inside, Lange sat on a long leather couch, an expensive scotch in hand. His severe cheekbones made his face look gaunt in the dim light, but his eyes were bright and alert, locking onto her immediately.

“Sabine.” He breathed reverently.

“You have spoiled me badly this week, Samuel. But, I would prefer if your boys didn’t maul all of my admirers, it looks bad.”

“My apologies, darling. I am a jealous man.” He placed his hand beside him as if leaning but it was a subtle demand for her to sit. She acquiesced and sat near him, perfectly ladylike if not for the way her coat was beginning to slide off her shoulders. Lange’s eyes faltered over the choker necklace, “I have never met a woman who looked as radiant in diamonds as you.”

“Only in _your_ diamonds,” she said, and he smiled at that, revealing perfect teeth.

The band started up outside their private booth, the sound filtering through loudly, indicating it was time to perform. Gaby stood, slipping off her coat and revealing a white lace bralette and high waisted bottoms.

“My God,” He set down his drink and leaned back to marvel at her, “you’re a thoroughbred.”

She smiled appreciatively and fell to her knees, gripping his thighs, spreading his legs wide. Scarcely touching, she pressed her stomach to his groin as she slid up his body, pressing her nose to the side of his neck as she whispered in his ear, “You can touch me if you want.” He was already getting hard, and his shaking hands, fisted at his sides, suddenly flew to her hips.

Twisting around, she leaned back over his body, felt his hands wrapping around her to toy with her breasts and she ground her ass into his lap. He gasped against her shoulder, kissing her skin, and Gaby felt the weight of this betrayal deeply. She pushed away images of Illya in order to do her job properly, but knew she was hurting him right now, more than those thugs ever could.

Samuel grabbed her waist and spun her around, guiding her into his lap so that she straddled his hips, their faces very close together. Gaby saw a danger in his eyes, a possessive lust that - had this been a different time and place, and he not a Nazi and she not a spy - she might have enjoyed it.

“Sabine, what would it take for me to have you?”

She smoothed a hand over his slick raven hair, and tugged at his tie, “Take me home and have me, Sam. You already own me.”

“And what of that other fellow?” His hands tensed on her skin and his tone became an animal growl, “What is _he_ to you?”

“He means nothing to me. Nothing at all.”


	6. Chapter 6

After grabbing her purse, and a quick exchange of formalities with the manager, Samuel and Gaby piled into the back of a Mercedes and they were off. At her insistence they were headed to Lange's home to consummate the transaction, rather than a high end hotel.

Gaby was flirty throughout the drive, pressing her legs against Samuel’s and laughing at his commentary as they raced through Manhattan. It was all a distraction as she noted where they were heading, occasionally commenting on landmarks to give away her location. The driver blared the radio and Gaby felt Lange’s hand rest possessively on her thigh.

Illya’s engagement ring perched on her index finger, rewired to send a tinny audio feed to a radio transmitter in her purse.

It turned out that Lange holed up in a brownstone in Brooklyn Heights, a short car ride at this hour from the theatre district. 

She marvelled at the ornate interior decor as she was ushered upstairs to a stately bedroom where huge bay windows looked out to the water. You could see the rising Manhattan skyline across the East River, glittering like stars in the early morning. Turning, she was distracted by the grandeur of Lange’s en suite office when he bullied her against a wall and kissed her hungrily, dragging off her coat.

He leaned back with dark eyes and swollen lips, “I am being terribly rude, not offering my guests a drink.”

“Oh... yes, I’m sure a man like you has champagne.” She batted her eyelashes as she pushed a fallen bra strap back on her shoulder.

“Of course. I won’t be long, please make yourself comfortable.”

The second he rounded the corner she began moving through the room, quietly opening drawers and closets. Luckily, Lange did not seem to believe in clutter, so it took only a minute until she found herself in his study, picking a locked drawer with a modified hairpin. Inside were checkbooks, receipts, jewelry in velvet boxes, and a tiny black leather book tied with a red ribbon. She inspected the little book carefully. Flipping through the pages revealed hundreds of coded names and addresses. When she held the paper to the light there were watermarked Reichsadlers, the Nazi’s imperial eagle, in the corners of the pages.

“Bingo,” she whispered to her ring.

Waverly’s brief was vague about the intelligence they sought to extract from Lange’s home, but it mentioned that he was a well-connected man in shady circles. An address book, once decoded, would be invaluable in finding more members of this organization.

Gaby flinched when she heard a champagne cork pop downstairs and rushed back to the bedroom, shoving the book in a secret compartment between the lining and the leather exterior of her purse. She arranged herself artfully upon the king sized bed, removing some of the pins in her hair so her hair fell in sumptuous curls about her shoulders.

“Ah,” Samuel entered the room carrying two flutes of champagne, “I like this, you look like you belong on my bed.” He laughed lightly and set the glasses down upon the bedside table. “Can you please lay on your front for me?"

Rather than question the request she rolled over and felt his hand cup the round of her ass. Fighting a wave of nausea she buried her face in the duvet and tried to wiggle her hips encouragingly. He fished around in his pocket and she felt him drag a finger down her spine.

Then, to her great shock, he _snorted_ up the length of her back. She realized with a chill that he had just inhaled cocaine off her skin.

“Want some, baby?” Lange wet his finger with his tongue and dipped it in the baggy, rubbing the powder on his bottom lip. He leaned over the bed and kissed her, probing her mouth his tongue. She let him do it. The powder on his lips tasted like rubbing alcohol and she slowly felt her mouth and nose numbing. She had never consumed hard substances before but refusing felt like it would blow her cover.

As they broke apart she saw that Lange’s eyes were reddened and his pupils were so deep and dark that she could hardly see the blue of his iris.

“Bitter, yeah? Most people don’t like the taste the first time.”

First time, she thought. Was it that obvious?

He stood abruptly and grabbed her purse from the floor, emptying it out onto the bed. Lipstick, keys, cigarettes, a compact mirror, two condoms… She watched, horrified, as the radio transmitter fell out, its red light blinking like a tiny heartbeat.

He looked at her for what felt like several minutes, his expression contorting with deep hurt and anger, then he barked a jarring laugh.

“And to think I thought I was being paranoid – I thought you stole _money_ from me… Jesus...”

“Sam, please, I would never–”

“ _Shut. Up._ ” He wrenched open the drawer of his bedside table and brandished a pistol, immediately pulling back the hammer with an ominous click. “So, C.I.A.? F.B.I.? What is it?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh my god how did I not see, your _man_ is in on it too!”

“No, you’re talking nonsense, Sam. You just did drugs, you’re not thinking.”

“Kindly shut the fuck up, darling, I am seeing clearly for the first time in _weeks._ That’s a radio transmitter used by the government for surveillance. I’ve seen them before. I bet your man is listening in on us right now. _Hellooooo!_ ”

Like a deer in the headlights, she stood still, looking at the unfaltering belief on his face, the unpredictable influence of drugs running through his veins. Her heart pounded, her muscles tensed, and every cell in her body knew that if she did not escape now then she would die here.

She bolted for the door, not getting two steps before Lange’s hands found purchase in her hair, hauling her to the floor as she screamed. It was useless, she was immediately pinned with his knee on her neck, a cold gun to her temple, and her arm hauled behind her back painfully.

“You stay right there or I will blow your face off.”

Gaby cried out as he twisted her arm more, and his murderous expression turned soft, “We could have had something Sabine, but now you have to die. It’s a fucking tragedy, I actually liked you.”

Releasing her arm, he squished her cheeks in his hand so that her lips were rudely pursed, “Hell, I was genuinely looking forward to fucking that beautiful mouth. I might still do it, I paid too much money to not get off tonight.”

Huffing quick painful breaths, Gaby stared him down, summoning the last of her strength as she lunged for the barrel of the gun with her free hand. Her grip, fueled by a fear of death, overpowered his, plucking the gun from his hands - but not before he squeezed the trigger with an ear-splitting bang, the bullet lodging into the floor beside her head. Gaby felt the spray of splintered wood against her face, the ringing in her ears deafening. In the stunned, deaf confusion of the moment she kicked at his groin and legs, knocking him to the ground, and wrestling the gun from his grip.

Pointing the gun at him with shaking hands, she fired the gun at his legs, hoping to obliterate a kneecap –

The chamber echoed dully. Empty. Lange laughed and made to rise from the ground, his face disturbingly strained, his surprise and anger contorting his expression into a frightening mask.

The cracking sound of his jaw was immensely satisfying as she pistol-whipped him across the face and he crumpled to the ground, unmoving.

Grabbing her emptied purse, feeling to make sure that the address book was still in the lining, she dashed out of the bedroom, down the gargantuan winding staircase, and across the foyer, her bare feet slapping on the marble. She was about to reach for the front door when she saw the handle turning of its own accord. Shadows appeared through the glass of the door, cronies who had heard the gunshot.

She stifled a gasp, her heart thudding. Turning ninety degrees to the side, she shoved the purse down into a human-sized vase beside the door. If she was going to die here, shot down in her attempted escape, she would at least complete the mission.

She bolted into the kitchen and back through the house to the backyard, throwing open the french doors as she heard men enter the house. Lange was screaming bloody murder in the distance, bellowing orders.

The winter air bit at her skin, her sheer lingerie offering no warmth.

“Mission compromised. Intelligence is now hidden in Lange’s house. Montague Terrace. Number 9.” She hissed to her ring, hoping the radio upstairs was still functioning and within range. This kind of communication was only a one-way street. She had no way to confirm that they heard her or were aware of her life-threatening situation.

Lange’s backyard was lush with greenery, the back fence an impenetrable ten feet of brick. Like a cornered animal she lunged at the wall, her shaking hands managing to hold on to creeping overgrown vines. An instinctual desire to survive pushed her on, even as she heard the back door open, heard shouting angry voices, felt hands on her ankles, pulling her down, grabbing her hair, shoving her head inside a pillowcase.

The sound she made as she was pried from the wall was alien to her, it was a beastly scream of frustration as she writhed against the men restraining her. It was only when she felt her wrists cinched together behind her back with a ty-rap zip tie that she felt her hope begin to sputter.

She said a silent prayer as she was hustled into the back of a van, the point of a knife and a chuckling henchman her only company. Lange was outside the vehicle speaking, directing another man as to exactly how they were going to solve their spy infestation problem. Gaby knew, from fragments of muffled conversation, that they were headed to the docks. They would certainly kill her there.

“Docks!” She strained, and grit her teeth when she felt the man’s hands begin to search her for the hidden microphone. She began to cry, hot tears dripping down her cheeks as the ring was pried off her finger, its absence like a wound.

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The long-awaited finale!

Following the car had been easy enough, fitting in with the natural flow of traffic, maintaining a far enough distance so as to not arouse suspicion. But Lange’s driver was sharper than most and the man caught on to the fact that they were being followed - purposely covering his tracks by taking strange one-ways and alleys. After losing sight of the car, Illya was the picture of tension and rage. If not for Gaby’s pointed remarks about the Brooklyn Bridge they would have been circling blocks in Soho.

A perverse road trip soundtrack played over a VHF military radio as they listened to the sloppy wet sounds of Gaby kissing Lange, waiting for the scene to dissolve into a sexual encounter. But Lange stalled, trying to be a gentleman, leaving Gaby alone, giving her the perfect window to snoop. Sounds filtered through the speaker that suggested she was quietly searching for something.

 _“Bingo,”_ she said under her breath.

"Good girl!" Solo beamed.

The microphone was only a one-way channel of communication, so their comments went unheard. Still, Solo wished he could reassure Gaby now. She was impossibly brave in the face of vulnerability, but bravery didn't stop bullets, it didn't assure safety.

They listened as Lange returned, Illya looking pale as the seduction continued. At the sound of Lange inhaling a substance sharply, their spines straightened. Gaby partook in the drug, playing her part, but Lange oozed paranoia. Tense words were exchanged and Gaby could not sidestep it smoothly. 

Her cover was blown.

_“I bet your man is listening in on us right now. Hellooooo!”_

“Hello.” Solo deadpanned.

Gaby bolted, as was appropriate, and they silently willed her on. They could hear her breathing and her feet on the ground, and how the feed from her microphone became muffled. Her scream of pain made Illya flinch violently. There was a thud and the muffled sound of Lange uttering threats beneath Gaby’s strained yelling. She was in pain. Illya pushed at the vehicle’s gas a little harder, desperately weaving through the grid of blocks along the waterfront while Napoleon stared out the window, his eyes roving in a panic, looking everywhere for a sign of how to find Gaby.

A gunshot crackled over the speaker and both men froze, their blood turning cold. Illya screeched to a stop, lowering his shaking hands from the steering wheel.

For a long time there was just interference, as if the microphone had malfunctioned. They didn’t look at each other, or say anything, holding onto the silence as an indeterminate possibly that she was not the victim of that bullet.

Then finally, after too long, they heard Gaby’s faint voice: _“Mission compromised. Intelligence is now hidden in Lange’s house. Montague Terrace. Number 9.”_

Solo circled the address on his map and proceeded to direct Illya as he floored the pedal, speeding violently through the narrow streets.

Yet, regardless of how they drove, it was too late, as they heard the horrific sounds of Gaby dragged down in her attempted escape. The most disconcerting sound was the click of a car door, indicating that they were taking her somewhere else. Somewhere where they might never find her.

 _“Docks!”_  – and the static hum as her microphone switched off. Gaby’s final transmission. Illya pulled sharply on the handbrake and swung the car into a screeching pin turn, channeling his seething rage into his driving as he raced towards the shipyard.

 

* * *

 

Gaby lay on the floor of the van as they drove, her head still obscured by a pillowcase as Lange crouched in the back of the van with her, his hand on her neck, his thumb brushing against her leaping pulse. There were two other men with them, one driving and the one with a knife. They were a motley crew, all huddled on the empty floor of an old delivery van. 

The henchman tasked with watching her was a bit of a sadist, it turned out, and tried to run the point of his blade along her thigh. Lange - still strangely possessive over her - ordered his men not to touch her, snarling as he spoke.  Small mercies, she supposed. 

When they rolled to a stop Lange broke the silence with a sigh.

"Tell me why I shouldn't strangle you right now." He asked.

"What if I said I was sorry?"

Everyone laughed.

"I like you kid, that's why I won't make it hurt, but you still have to die.”

The car doors opened and she heard the crying of gulls. Rather than put a bullet in her brain right there, the driver and Lange got out of the van to open what sounded like the rattling metal door of a garage several yards away. Gaby’s imagination could paint a variety of pictures of what that garage held within. Cocaine, a few vehicles with stolen plates, weapons. The usual criminal set pieces. But more likely, there was a drain in the floor with shackles dangling above it, stained rust from previous victims of the drug lord’s attentions.

A lone streetlamp cast a sharp silhouette of the lone guard through the fabric of the pillowcase. This was useful, she could tell when his face was turned away from her, looking out the window of the van. With as much stealth as she could muster she tucked her knees up to her chest, passing her tied arms underneath her feet so her hands were now in front of her body. Removing the pillowcase from her head, she rose, watched the man for a half second, sizing her opponent up, before striking.

Gaby leapt onto his back and wrapped her arm around his neck in a modified sleeper hold, compensating for stature and strength with technique.

Her near-nudity made her difficult to grab and her rage made her difficult to throw off as the man thrashed, taken by surprise. He yelled but all he could muster was a strained gagging sound. As a last ditch effort to free himself he threw his body to the floor of the van, crushing her, and she felt the breath driven out of her so intensely that she saw stars. Dust from the ceiling rained down on them. Throwing off her arms, he gasped like a drowned man, sucking in breaths through his crushed windpipe. Then, catching his breath, he flipped around and lunged at her. His cold fingers found purchase around the glittering necklace, squeezing her like a vice.

Gaby strained her bound arms, fumbling for the knife holstered at his belt, and when she held it firmly in both hands she slashed blindly at him - slitting his throat. The blade dug into his neck so easily, a seemingly shallow cut suddenly overflowing with hot dark blood, dripping down onto Gaby’s bare stomach and breasts as he slumped over her. He emitted a horrifyingly ragged gurgle.

“Oh God… Oh God…” she panicked, struggling to free herself from where she was pinned beneath him, crying and gasping at the horrific amount of blood continually flowing onto her stomach. 

Calming herself, she used the bloodied knife to saw at the plastic tie on her wrists.

Sliding out from underneath the dying man, drenched in a deep dark crimson, she stood shakily and moved towards the front seat of the van, feeling around the sun visor for a key. Finding none, she leapt back down and pried the gun from the back of her victim’s belt, pulling back the slide to confirm that it was loaded.

Through the glass she could see Lange walking towards the vehicle in the dim light, the driver flanking him.

Armed and cautious, Gaby scampered to the side of the vehicle farthest from Lange, opening the sliding van door as quietly as she dared, slipping out into the cold winter air, her bare feet instantly going numb on the wet concrete. Sidling along the vehicle, she rounded the corner, held her breath, took aim, and pulled the trigger. 

The driver stayed upright for a disturbingly long time, teetering like a felled tree as he eventually crumpled to the ground, bleeding from a small hole in his temple. Lange leapt back from the dead man with a horrified shout, mortal dread paling his bruised face.

As she stepped away from the safety of the vehicle she let herself bask in Lange’s terror for a long moment. How frightening she would have seemed to him, soaked in blood, her hair wild, as she held aloft a German Luger like an angel of judgment.

It began to rain, fat icy drops ushered forth by deep rolling thunder.

He bolted, running towards the edge of the shipyard where the concrete ended and the sea began. As Gaby raced after him Lange tripped on a wet patch. He screamed and cowered, knowing that she had no reason to show mercy.

Gaby stood over him, aiming a dead man’s pistol at his chest, when screeching tires and bright headlights came roaring through the industrial park gates.

The car stopped abruptly and familiar silhouettes emerged from the vehicle, rushing over to her. She breathed a heavy sigh of relief when Solo’s distinctive voice cut through the rain. Gaby looked their way, her expression softening from stone cold killer to frightened girl. 

The cavalry had arrived.

Suddenly, Lange grabbed for her gun and Gaby reacted automatically, pulling the trigger, wincing at the earsplitting bang and watching as red bloomed through his expensive shirt. She dropped the gun in shock, reaching out to him as if in apology. “Sam…” She gasped. He sat up slowly and pressed a hand to his stomach, marveling at the colour staining his fingers. He stood up slowly, his lungs rasping.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw that Illya and Napoleon were running full tilt towards her, just as Lange crushed her in what felt like a passionate embrace – the blood from his wounded gut mixing with the blood slicked across her torso. Emotionally overwhelmed and physically exhausted, she felt herself relaxing into the touch against all better judgment.

“Darling,” he wheezed, “stay with me.”

Lange bullied her over to the lip of the dock and she realized what was happening just as it was too late. A bullet struck his shoulder and he cried out in pain but didn’t release her. Her feet felt the rough lip of the concrete and she screamed as he threw their weight over the edge, dragging her with him, down into the sloshing depths.

There was a moment where it was if they would never hit the water, but when they did it was like entering an icy underworld devoid of light, warmth, and sensation. Whether she had clothes on or not would have made little difference, the winter sea was so cold it felt like boiling water, her skin screaming as it was numbed to the point of confusion. Lange’s arms were around her, and when she opened her eyes all she could see what black, to the point that she didn’t know what way the stars were. 

Still, driven to survive, she clawed at Lange, the limited feeling in her hands finding the flesh of his face, ripping at his eyes until his arms loosened and she could kick and swim away. Her body screamed for air and she exhaled bubbles, blowing out carbon dioxide for some limited relief, attempting to calm herself, but it was an impossible task. One could not be calm while drowning. 

Without Lange’s bleeding body against her everything felt even colder, the all-encompassing blackness like swimming in india ink, pressing in on her with such crushing weight that her lungs demanded that she inhale, and so she did. The pain was unlike anything she had experienced before, like acid and fire and knives inside her body, and she begged God for death until, mercifully, her thrashing arm broke through the surface of the water.

 

* * *

 

Without hesitation, Illya removed his watch, coat and shirt and dived off the lip of the shipyard. He bobbed up from the depths with a gasp, the cold like a vice on his ribs, and frantically looked about for any human life. The rain was pelting the sea so hard that any inconsistencies in the surface of the water were lost in the noise.

“Gaby!” He bellowed, “Gaby!”

Noisy bubbles surfaced nearby and Illya grabbed in their general direction, yelling in surprise as Lange’s ghastly half-dead face emerged, frothing a blood-tinged pink at the mouth. Illya pushed him away in frustration, leaving the half-drowned man to bob listlessly.

Knowing Gaby would be nearby, he dove, opening his eyes to the cold and the dark, but could see nothing. Time was running out and the war drums began to pulse in his brain with the rhythm of a ticking clock. He thought of the tick of his father’s watch during KGB training as he was drilled in breath-holding exercises. He thought of how it had felt to drown in that Italian marina, choking on burning saltwater. He imagined Gaby drowning now and panic clawed at his throat. Illya pressed a hand to his mouth to stifle the sob threatening to spill from his lips.

Gaby had survived so much, and there was so much promise to the lives they could potentially forge together. He told himself that Gaby was stronger than this. She would make it, he told himself over and over again, and he would wake up next morning with her in his arms.

He cast his eyes up to see that Solo was stooping over the edge, scouring the water, while Lange gurgled and floated along.

Then, close by, an arm thrust upwards from the darkness, slapping at the water wildly. Immediately, Illya grabbed the limb and pulled a pale, vomiting Gaby from the deep. He held her to his chest from behind, leaning back, and she spluttered for what felt like an age.

For a moment she just strained to breath but then she cried out, “Illya?!”

“I’ve got you. I’ve got you.” He blinked away tears, thankful for his already wet face, and kissed Gaby’s wet head. “It’s okay now.”

She wretched in response.

Hauling her waterlogged body up the greasy rungs of the sea wall was strenuous but Solo greeted them at the top with a wool blanket from the car, which Illya swaddled Gaby in like an infant.

Solo, ever the mindful chaperone, deposited them in the back of their car with the heater full blast while he sorted out loose ends.

Under the wool blanket, Illya kissed Gaby's blue lips, holding her tight as they shivered together, laughing against each other's mouths and smoothing needy fingers over each other’s faces. Colour was beginning to return to her face in the form of a blush. Somehow, she had bested the odds. He regarded her with reverence and wonder, amazed that she was alive, here, now, and not lost forever.

Solo knocked on the window courteously before sitting himself in the driver's seat. He spoke as he drove.

“Dragged our friend out of the water.” He raised a brow as he looked over his shoulder, “He's in the garage now, waiting for the NYPD to show. There's enough coke in there to put him away for a long time. Knicked some of his bookkeeping, what was useful for the mission, and a few other things that would benefit my pocketbook.”

“Of course.” Illya smirked against Gaby’s hair.

They drove in silence, returning briefly to Lange’s brownstone flat where Solo retrieved the little black address book from the vase by the door. It was so tiny, so seemingly meaningless, and yet Gaby had nearly died acquiring it.

When he returned to the driver's seat he sat for a long time, staying very still.

“Napoleon,” Gaby breathed, “is something wrong?”

“You scared the hell out of me back there.” He leaned back and looked at her, his eyes glistening, his Adonis face twisted in a rare instance of emotion. Napoleon Solo had a heart.

“I'm sorry,” she whispered.

“No, don’t be. I underestimated you.” He managed a trademark smirk, “You're a hell of a lot tougher than you look.”

 

* * *

 

 

Once he was back at the hotel Solo poured himself a generous scotch and called Waverly’s office. The Brit picked up after one ring.

“Tell me.” Waverly’s voice was tense.

“Gaby’s fine.”

Waverly released a huge breath he had been holding. “Oh thank God… and the intelligence?”

“We got a coded address book. We’ll need some brains to crack the cipher.”

“Of course, and our Nazi Playboy Drug Lord?”

“Wounded - in police custody by now. There will be two collateral casualties discovered, all by Gaby’s hand.”

“Ah.” There was a long silence. Waverly tutted for a moment, likely stewing over torrid feelings of relief and guilt. Solo knew he felt similarly. “We’ll send in the cleaners shortly to scrub up Gaby’s evidence. Thank you for the report, Solo. I assume our friends are... recovering?”

“You assume correctly.”

“Well, a pleasant - ah - morning to you all. Four in New York, yes? I’ll be flying out shortly. Cheers.” 

The line went dead.

 

* * *

 

No matter how hot she turned the tap, the scalding water wasn’t enough to make the horrifying guilt scrub away. Gaby closed her eyes and winced as the blood sloughed off her skin and down the drain. Illya, used to the sight of another’s blood, helped her get clean.

The business of being a British spy meant that she was supposed to be good at this - an unflinching wrench for the government to use however it liked. She had killed two people during her handful of years out in the field. The first had been death by strangulation with a necktie, the second a knife through the ribs. She couldn’t sleep when she remembered their faces, so she drank to forget.

Now she had two more to add to her list.

“I don't like killing.” She said.

“You're not supposed to.”

Not one for talking through emotions, Illya expressed his doting concern by being attentive and gentle. He massaged shampoo into her hair, rinsed it, and smoothed the black of her running mascara away with his thumbs. Gaby let herself be vulnerable. She leaned against him and liked how stable he felt, like the firm unyielding trunk of a tree. If she clung to him she suspected she could weather this storm.

“Come.” Illya’s accent became thicker when he was tired, “We get dry and go to bed. You will feel better after sleeping.”

 

* * *

 

For a very long time they simply laid on the bed with their foreheads touching, smelling of soap and toothpaste, their breath mingling as they basked in each other's presence. Gaby examined his face with concern, his purpling swollen nose and bruised orbital. He supposed he looked like a boxer who had lost a match.

Illya considered how delicate she was in this moment. Her wrists were tiny in his grip, her shivering shoulders so slight. He wrapped around her, as if his giant frame could be her armour, and snuggled deeper into the covers.

“I thought you were dead.” Illya said, low and soft, “I heard the first gunshot and I…” he faltered, focusing on Gaby, real and safe in his arms, “I have not lived happy life, but I thought… maybe with you and Cowboy, life could be better. When I thought you were dead I did not think that anymore.”

“I’m still here, Illya. I’m with you.”

As she nuzzled against his throat he could not read her expression so he gently lifted her chin, turning her face to his. The events of that evening were replaying like ghosts in her eyes.

“Gaby, I…” These were words he had not uttered since he was a child, he did not know how to say them. He had been moulded into a machine that could rend men apart, but he could not tell the woman in his arms that he loved her.

“You love me,” Gaby said matter-of-factly.

His shame was written on his face and he let her see it, laying himself bare.

“Yes.” he said, because it was true. Of course he loved her - how could he resist her insolence, her strength, and her dark dangerous eyes.

He couldn’t help himself; he wanted to drown in her.

 

* * *

 

Gaby stared back, comatose, not reacting, gauging his expression, knowing he meant it, knowing with choking certainty that she loved him back.

Her heart was a bouquet of exploding fluorescent flowers, joyful, blooming, but there was a sickening strain of necrosis there. She looked at his strained expression and knew they would be good to each other, they would love each other fiercely and make each other happy. But the life of a spy was not meant to be domestic, traditional, or safe

There would be many years of this, car chases, aliases, fucking in hotel rooms, washing blood off of each other, long-distance solo missions… and the less glamourous events, too. The brushes with death, the physical and emotional trauma, the potential of a slow torturous death, or being executed at gunpoint like an animal being put down.

In all likelihood they would not live long enough to retire. They would live fast and die young, cut down in their prime by a well-aimed bullet.

She saw this fate and tears began to flow, slow and hot down her stony face.

This was not the reaction Illya was hoping for, he moved to cradle her, wrecked with concern, his expression horrified, “Gaby… Gaby… What is it?”

It dawned on her that she had never cried in front of him before. She turned away from him to hide her face, his anxious hands pawing at her shoulder. When she regained composure she immediately lost it in an attack of half-sobbing giggles, only to alarm him more.

“Gaby, please tell me what's wrong.” he growled.

“Illya!” she laughed through the emotional pain, “I … do. I do, too.”

“You," he looked puzzled, "You love me, too?”

She nodded, pressing a shocked hand to cover her mouth. “Yes!” she whispered between her fingers.

Illya gently moved her hand from her mouth and kissed her, opening her mouth with his, drawing out a breathy sigh. He tasted of mint and blood from his injured lip.

“Good.” he said, his hands fisting in her hair. 

The warmth in her chest, that impossible hope for the future, told her that even if this love affair ended in tragedy – it would have all been worth it. In time, the two calmed into a tangled embrace. Illya kissed her eyelids, stroked her hair, and they fell prey to the clutches of sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for coming with me on this journey, I hope this ending was everything you hoped for! A huge thank you to those who have been waiting for so long to see how this concludes, especially those who have been here since chapter 1 and toughed it out since November. You're amazing and I wouldn't have been able to do this without your words of encouragement.
> 
> If you enjoyed this story please let me know in the comments - I love hearing what you think and what worked for you. 
> 
> And please stop by my tumblr and say hello if you get the chance! ([Here's a link to my tumblr!](http://pyromancing.tumblr.com/))
> 
> You guys are the best. Much love, -pyr


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